With New York’s Long Distance Poison, space is unambiguously the place, an endless slow-motion on-rush of IV-drip drones and sprinkler-system synthesizers and rapturous out-of-body experiences. If you ask us, this act would be better suited to the tail end of the last night of the festival than at the first night’s close, but we’re just stoked to have them onboard.

Breached Hull, 9:30 p.m.

Ohio’s Breached Hull — members of Water Torture and Pussdrainer, if those handles ring a Hell’s bell — straight up scare us. Nobody should be allowed to have a discography this shallow while bringing to bear decimating, wasteland wrath like these dudes do. The emphasis seems to be on decaying loops of melody and flanged industrial detritus, jacked samples, and some guy screaming into a microphone. Think of Sword Heaven, Skinny Puppy, the pummeling early moments on Nine Inch Nails’ The Downward Spiral — then imagine all of that stuff hastily shoved under a hood and kicked down a stairwell strewn with syringes and broken glass. Remember Pinhead, from the Hellraiser movies? This is his favorite dance-pop band.

TAHNZZ (NM), 10:50 p.m.

Something sinister’s afoot in Albuquerque; Tahnee Udero’s Soundcloud page will provide all the evidence anyone could need to prove that. What we have here is a very earthy, downright terrestial strain of sound that brings to mind spades shoved into rocky soil, metal detectors swung methodically over marshlands at dusk, cyborg buzzards signaling one another obliquely, backmasked. Sometimes her noise just sputters, spurned and shamed and spinning slowly, like a under-confident, tarmac-humping headwind. There’s an odd, thrilling comfort in Udero’s micro fume and fizzle — some allure in being scared shitless.

Kakerlak (MD), 11:50 p.m.

The best thing about seeing Baltimore’s Kakerlak live might be watching people in the audience trying to suss out how the fuck to react to the simulated sound of a drill bit chewing through ten-foot thick reinforced steel doors for the entirety of the set. Some people headbang absently. Some nod in accordance with a beat that only they can hear. Some just stare at the hopelessly normal-normal looking dude fucking around with gear on a table, gear that can make you believe that you’re listening to a water roaring down into the drain of a Pluto-sized bathtub on the verge of taking you down along with it.

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Saturday, May 25

Maria Chavez, 9 p.m.

Brooklyn’s own Maria Chavez does amazing things with turntables, eliciting sounds from them that are transportive, demonic, mischevious, anarchistic, sometimes all at the same time, whilst setting fire to the idea that musicians laying waste to precision electronics is, unavoidably, a taboo. If her set this weekend inverts your paradigm, invest in her how-to text, Of Technique: Chance Procedures on Turntable, if you can get hold of a copy.

Wisconsin’s Peter J. Woods — overseer of the FTAM Productions label, curator of the Milwaukee Noise fest, and way more besides — is a veritable atonal omnivore: his tastes range from the splintery to the hailstorm to the startlingly theatrical, depending on his disposition and who he’s performing with. Regardless of which Woods you catch at Ende Tymes, expect to come away altered, changed.

Penny Royale, 11:20 p.m.

If you’re of the opinion that most dance music should sound like scrap metal jackknifing a damned jig inside a quaking Maytag dryer ascending the incline of an ancient rollercoaster gear by wretched gear, perhaps you should catch Kyle Kessler’s set. Kessler — who goes by Penny Royale sometimes, Kyle Clyde at others — zooms in on and celebrates industrial’s irksome, tactile pleasures, but her electronic constructs sometimes linger lovingly over ice-floe strewn Arctic quays of ultraviolet synthesizer. Afraid? You should be.

Dried Up Corpse, 12 a.m.

Hailing from Washington state, Dried Up Corpse flies the flag for noise of the scouring, crackling, no-televised-signal variety. At moderate volume and intensity, the result is offensively anonymous; jacked up and wilding out, it’s the best, most random kind of sonic terrorism, like wandering into a slush-ball fight between rival gangs and having no clue whatsoever who’s cold-crushing your vintage Cross Colors gear, busting your Oliver Peoples, deep-sixing your iPhone.

Aaron Dilloway, 12:20 a.m.

Post-Wolf Eyes, Aaron Dilloway’s artistry has blossomed and boomtowned into an aesthetic at once comic and concussive, gnarly and gregarious. Noise reigns, of course, but in loops that knowingly lasso in horns, grit, and well-chosen samples, relentlessly working over source material the way gravity and time transform fossils into oil. The key difference: huffing Dilloway’s fumes won’t make you violently nauseous. Or will it?

Ohio’s Collapsed Arc is a sacred trickster, a purveyor of gimmick-strewn klatches and pattering hiccuping machinist quirks and farting samplers; slide whistles, bells, and other noise makers have a role. In his hands, experimental music becomes a fantastic sort of play, like MATMOS without thematic conceits or rigor; it’s nothing short of refreshing.

Jason Soliday, 10:00 p.m.

Pegging Jason Soliday’s work is difficult. There is what might be described as a willful fluidity to his sonic expanses, a generous sense of give, but one digitally worked-over burst of sense-data — a scrap of drone, a burst of static electricity, what sounds like somebody masturbating a balloon filled with helium — inevitably gives way to a divertingly infinitous miscellany, like a low-calorie Russell Haswell or something.

Mister Matthews, 1:30 a.m.

As half of NOLA/NYC synthesizer disembowlers Telecult Powers, Mssr. Matthews conjures air balloon rooms choked with dosed, velociraptor soot. So it’s been weird to bear witness to his solo guise, High School Confidential, that force-fed metric tons of spasming harsh noise. New tape Competitive Games of Realness (Trepanr) is a welcome left turn, a twee nirvana of threaded, curlicue synths and hyperventilating effects. All of which portends an intriguing direction.